


Fool In Love

by gotfanfiction



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Boys Are Dumb, Feral Behavior, Fist Fights, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Silly, Witcher Courting Rituals (The Witcher), but we love them anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27807004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotfanfiction/pseuds/gotfanfiction
Summary: Lambert was being winked at, the man standing even closer, inviting him in on the joke, and -what did he use for soap, it smelled amazing- it was making him a bit dizzy.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 17
Kudos: 185





	Fool In Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Symbolic_Deviant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Symbolic_Deviant/gifts).



> This thing fought me the whole way, and I hate it so much ;-; That being said, please enjoy ;]

Jaskier was a little surprised at how quickly he became accustomed to riding. He hadn’t ridden regularly since he was a child, preferring now to either walk or to even hang on the back of someone’s carriage, not that the people inside seemed to think it was as funny as he or his friends did. But his legs only burned for a few days, and his newly purchased horse was a sweetheart, as placid as Roach had been fiery. 

It was a miracle that he’d just happened to find them, all three of them headed to the Witcher’s Keep, Kaer Morhen, which Jaskier only knew the approximate location of, and knew only that much after getting Geralt so thoroughly drunk that it had loosened his lips very briefly. He’d made a camp hours ago, of sorts, no fire for fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention, aware of the army marching slowly but steadily across the Continent.

Sheer luck had him glancing up just in time to spot a smear of white within the green of the woods around him, and a sudden surge of adrenaline had him up and across his camp in a heartbeat. He would never have caught up with him if Geralt hadn’t been so obviously haggard and worn, drenched in sweat, eyes bloodshot and bleary, the skin around them so dark as to be bruised. 

Jaskier was beyond overjoyed, however, to see little Ciri there as well, safe as she could be, considering, peeking around a tree, face dirty and hair tangled atrociously, but  _ alive, _ both of them breathing and alive, and he forgave himself the few tears that slipped out. The peace between the two adults is uneasy, but Ciri is thankfully too distracted by his appearance to take notice of their stiffness towards one another.

It is  _ so  _ good to see her again, no matter how filthy she is, and she’s glad to see a familiar face after so long with strangers, and it takes only minutes to convince Geralt to allow Jaskier to join them on their trek. It helps that Ciri refuses to entertain any notion of leaving the bard behind, and any fool with eyes could see that Geralt is soft on the fierce little princess. 

Arriving at Kaer Morhen is nearly surreal; Jaskier didn’t know, exactly, what he had been expecting, but a crumbling fortress wasn’t it. He somehow imagined it to be a grander place than this, though he could see how it might have been mighty back in its heyday. Snow was piled up outside, in little heaps against poorly repaired walls, the air thin, a chill wind stealing the breath from his lungs. 

Jaskier could only hope it was warmer inside.

*--*

Lambert was the last to arrive, a last minute contract keeping him busy for a god awful two weeks, but he had his coin, and he had a bottle of brandy pressed into his hands from an unusually grateful innkeeper, so, all things considered, being a little late wasn’t too much of a bad thing. He stabled his horse, making sure she was brushed down and had enough food before he dragged his ass and his bags into the keep proper. 

The first thing he noticed was the new smells, two people unfamiliar to him; the second thing he noticed was that the ever present drafts inside the great hall were no longer there, like someone had at last taken the time to plug the damn things up. He tensed up, nose twitching even as Eskel walked up to him to slap him on the back and welcome him home.

“Ease up, Lambert,” Eskel dragged him over to his usual chair, suspiciously stain free, and forced him into it, all his shit tossed over one of his giant arms. “Eat something, have a drink. I’ll get this up for you.”

Lambert ate, but did  _ not  _ ease up, because this was fucking bribery, yes it was, Eskel trying to head off his brother’s temper, and it rankled at him, but it was less work for him, wasn’t it? He sure as shit wasn’t happy about people in his space, in the only time during the year where he didn’t have to deal with humans being shitheads at him, but he was also trying to figure out how to milk this for as long as possible while taking bites of the better than usual stew. 

He frowned at his bowl. They didn’t bother with herbs or spices, much, all of them too used to rough living to care very much about how the food tasted, so long as it wasn’t rancid. Did someone hire a fucking cook? Was he gonna have to worry about getting poisoned?

Why the fuck would anyone pull this shit on him and then not tell him about it? Lambert stood up, suddenly not hungry anymore. They always did this, not even thinking to ask him his opinion, because little baby Lambert couldn’t fucking handle it, god fucking dammit. He let his nose guide him to what was left of their library, the scent of the two strangers stronger here, and maybe his temper was getting the better of him, but why the fuck should he care?

He threw the door open, and the two humans sitting at a table with their heads bent over a book startled and jumped, and the snarl forming on his face dropped right off when he noticed that one was a child, eyes wide and a little scared.  _ Shit. _ The man sitting next to her stood fluidly, a smile at the ready, though his eyes were just a bit wary.

“Hello! Is it safe to assume that  _ you _ are Lambert? We’ve heard a lot about you, you know; Ciri and I have been looking forward to meeting you.” 

Lambert tried to do anything besides gape like a fool. He doubted the two of them had heard anything  _ good, _ and him barging in on the two of them, looking as mean as he ever did, probably didn’t help. “Uh,” he cleared his throat, awkward, and the smile on the stranger’s face deepened, reached his, wow, his really gorgeous eyes, and now that he was paying more attention the man himself was absolutely lovely, and he wondered which of his brothers had managed to convince someone like him to stay the winter with them.

Or...no, it couldn’t have been  _ Vesemir; _ even just thinking of it made a shudder go down his spine. Just. No.

“We were just finishing up with our lessons for the day,” the man stepped closer to him, and Lambert fought the urge to step back, to cast his eyes to the floor. “A young lady must have a proper education, don’t you agree?”

“Uh. Yeah?” Lambert wouldn’t actually know, him never having been a young lady or even seeing them very often. 

“And then chores, of course, but we might see if we can wiggle out of those, considering how  _ overjoyed _ we are at your arrival.” 

Lambert was being winked at, the man standing even closer, inviting him in on the joke, and -what did he use for soap, it smelled amazing- it was making him a bit dizzy. Humans didn’t ever seem  _ delighted  _ to run into Witchers, relieved, sometimes, yes, but not like they were actually excited to meet them, especially not him, specifically. 

"I'm Jaskier, this lovely young lady here is Ciri, as you know, and of course you're Lambert." Jaskier managed to get even closer, smile wide, eyes bright, drawing him in. 

“Yeah,” Lambert regained control of his body, got a little closer himself. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.” If his nose was right, and it usually was, Jaskier wasn’t uninterested in getting a little friendly himself.

*--*

Chores successfully dodged, the three of them walked into the hall just in time to see Eskel setting out plates of what Lambert was more used to when his brothers cooked: meat and hardy root vegetables, just enough seasoning to make them palatable, nothing fancy or mouth wateringly delicious like the stew from earlier. Generally Lambert was in charge of the kitchen in the winter time, as he was surprisingly deft at preparing meals, patient in a way he rarely was. 

Geralt was frowning, hard, his face pulled down into bitter lines, and only Ciri’s chirping 'hello' softened that granite face of his. What the fuck had crawled up his ass? Jaskier’s smile had turned thin, but he greeted everyone as warmly as he had Lambert earlier.

Eskel was looking at him funny, nose twitching, but was keeping his mouth shut, unlike Geralt who had snapped at him the second he laid eyes on him.  _ “About time you dragged your ass home.” _ Fuck you, too, asshole. 

This is why everyone liked Eskel the best, Lambert mused as he inched his way down the bench to get a better view of his new  _ friend, _ because he knew when to let things lie, and when to speak up. He’d also made sure Lambert and Geralt were as far away from each other as possible without having to shout to talk, and he really was Lambert’s favorite person.

Or, second favorite, really. Jaskier had muscled his way to the top just by existing. It would be impressive if the list wasn’t so short. Vesemir had taken one look at them and taken his plate elsewhere, probably his room. Lambert felt almost guilty for driving the old man off, but he didn’t really feel like getting into an argument with him there to look disapproving and stern either, so, whatever. Whatever.

Jaskier was chatting away, usually to Ciri, who was sat between him and Geralt, but often to Lambert -he wasn’t preening- as well. Eskel was content to eat his food and listen, and Geralt was somehow more surly than usual. Jaskier didn’t speak to him hardly at all, and every word tossed his way seemed to lay on the knife edge of civility.

Lambert was dying to know what had happened _ there, _ and not just because he was worried about his stupidly, unfairly, attractive brother being his competition. He was a curious guy, and even the slightest chance of having the upper hand over Geralt had him smirking into his beer. He was determined to woo the trousers right off of Jaskier, and then find a way to keep him forever. 

*--*

Eskel was definitely laughing at him. Geralt’s horrible resting bitch face had slipped just enough to let a smirk out, and Vesemir had, once again, fled the scene the moment he laid eyes on it. Lambert probably should have, too, but it was too late for him. 

He'd spent the past few days making himself as useful as he could, fetching and carrying and opening doors, and not getting much more than the same bemused smile every time, so he’d upped the ante, as it were. Which is how he found himself dragging bucket after bucket of water into the keep, wet up past his ankles, just so Jaskier could then put him to work scrubbing decades of grime out of the kitchen.

Couldn't even bitch about it, as he had absolutely done this to himself and it wasn't like the bard wasn't helping him clean, little Ciri darting around, determined to help but mostly getting underfoot. His shirt was nearly as soaked as his boots, but the fire was blazing in the hearth, so he wasn't freezing. 

He was tired of it sticking to him, so the second Jaskier banished Ciri to her books he stripped it off and tied it around his hips. The smell of arousal was extremely gratifying, and cleaning wasn't so bad when you had someone to talk to who thought your bad jokes were actually funny. 

*--*

Lambert needed help. It had been three weeks and he hadn't gotten much further than mild flirting and the occasional heavy glance. The dagger had been appreciated but unnecessary; apparently Jaskier always carried one in his boot. A gift from  _ Geralt, _ of all people, and hadn't that set Lambert's teeth on fucking edge?

He'd used up all his little kitchen tricks he'd picked up over the years, driven to experimentation, even, which had ended not so well often enough that Vesemir had pulled him aside, mustache twitching, and told him to knock it off. The old bastard had been almost gentle about it, too, which was so fucking mortifying. 

There was one person in the Keep who'd known Jaskier long enough to know what he liked or didn't like, what he usually went for in a partner, and that was  _ fucking Geralt, _ but Lambert was willing to swallow his pride for even the slightest edge, alright, he could fucking do this. He was an adult, Geralt was an adult, they got along okay when both of them were in rare good moods, this would be easy. 

He was pacing back and forth in front of Geralt's room, hands clenching and unclenching; no doubt the other man could hear him from inside the room, but the door stayed close. Lambert knocked, quick and loud, and was stuck waiting til Geralt got off his fat ass to open the door, which took longer than it should have. 

His white hair wasn't so much as ruffled, so he couldn't have been asleep, and he jerked his chin at Lambert,  _ get in, _ and closed the door behind them with a grimace. He may have guessed the reason Lambert was here, judging by the twisting of his mouth, but he'd probably hoped to just wait him out. 

Lambert took a steadying breath in, but was cut off before he'd spoken.

"You don't need my blessing or permission to fuck him, you know." Geralt was fussing with his potions, back turned. "Just do it and put us all out of our misery." 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Gods, Lambert hated him sometimes, "Listen, I just wanted some advice about, uh, courting. What kind of shit he likes, or doesn't like. If it was just about screwing him, don't you think I would have done that by now?" 

Geralt snorted, deigned to look at him over his shoulder. "Jaskier doesn't  _ do _ courting, Lambert. He woos his way into people's beds, and drops them as soon as he's bored. The longest relationship he's ever had was with some Countess, and that only lasted as long as it did because she was paying him." 

His stomach lurched, but who was he to judge? He was going to try anyway. "I didn't ask about that, I asked what he liked. Does he have a type of partner he prefers? What's his favorite color, that sort of shit." 

"How the fuck am I supposed to know?" Geralt was done with this conversation, turning back to his potions, but Lambert really was not. 

"You spent twenty odd years traveling together off and on," Lambert grabbed Geralt’s shoulder, tired of being ignored. "And what, you don't know anything about the man?" 

"Why would I bother? I spent twenty years trying to shake a stone from my boot, and just when I thought it had gone it popped back up, and now I'm stuck with it again." Geralt sneered, but it was followed by a heavy sigh. "Look, Lambert. He'll be bored of you in a week. That's just how he is. He doesn't stay, unless you have enough riches to keep him distracted." 

Lambert, who'd been doing an admiral job of keeping his temper in check for the past few weeks, felt his eyebrows twitch, and Geralt didn't even have time to get his arms up or even turn his head away. His nose bent with a satisfying crunch, blood spurting out between the fingers of the hand Geralt had cupped around his broken nose, eyes wide. 

He knew, when Geralt didn't lunge for him or follow him out of the room, that the other Witcher was sorry, at least a little, for what he'd said. Not that it mattered. Lambert was going to court Jaskier until the bard would stay, not just for the winter, but possibly forever. 

*--*

Jaskier had noticed Geralt’s busted nose right away, eyes bruised, when the Witcher checked on Ciri’s lessons, but when he raised an eyebrow in query the Witcher had done his one armed shrug that usually meant,  _ my fault, _ and he let it lie. He didn’t want to put any more ripples in the truce they’d managed to settle into. 

Ciri was less quiet, fussing over her guardian, pouting at the lie that it had been caused by an accident, disbelieving. The girl favored her mother, an ethereal sort of beauty, but whenever she raised an imperious eyebrow all he could see was the terrifying Calanthe, and he and Geralt shared a briefly amused look at her huffing. 

Not a bad start to the day, Ciri reluctantly turning back to her work and Geralt leaving with a nod, rather than his usual suspicious scowl. Jaskier imagined his face was too tender for scowling at the moment, barely smothered a laugh at the thought of Geralt hurting himself with his usual frown. 

There wasn't much else planned after lessons were completed, and he set Ciri loose to wreak havoc as she saw fit, while he settled in for a comfortable afternoon of "reading in the training room." He absolutely had a book with him, and he would even read from it occasionally, when things were boring. 

But.

Things weren’t boring right now, Eskel and Lambert circling each other like cats, practice swords raised, shirts blessedly off. Geralt was running through drills a bit aways from them, though he was still fully dressed. Almost a shame, but it wasn’t like Jaskier was upset at his view in the slightest.

Eskel was big all over, bigger even than Geralt, and softer in the best way; any other time he would have been hard pressed to keep his hands off, but more often Jaskier found himself staring at Lambert, who was leaner than either of his brothers. Still bigger than he was, densely muscular in the way he supposed most Witchers must be, stronger than ordinary men, and he thrilled at the thought, privately, of a partner strong enough to lift him with ease.

He wasn’t too stupid, really, to not notice the looks Lambert sent him, the way the youngest Witcher stood close, and he was very tempted. Very,  _ very _ tempted, he thought, eying the sweat beading on Lambert’s shoulders, flattening his chest hair down, and Jaskier raised his eyebrow when he was caught staring. Eskel was happy to take advantage of Lambert’s distraction, knocking his brother clean off his feet. 

Lambert’s breath left him all at once, and Jaskier wasn’t laughing at him, honest. 

*--*

It was late, and quiet, and Lambert had just had a talk with Eskel who, while visibly holding back his amusement, gave him one piece of advice: be honest. Lambert wasn’t good at being honest when it came to himself, but he figured if he wanted Jaskier to stick around for as long as possibly, honesty was probably the best way to go. 

Jaskier was curled up in the chair that was unofficially his, next to the big hearth in the hall, actually reading the book in his hands this time. He seemed fairly absorbed, and Lambert hesitated a few feet away, wondering if he should bother him, but Jaskier looked up and smiled in invitation, and the choice was made for him.

He perched on the arm of the chair, maybe a bit too close, but Jaskier didn’t seem to mind, and was happy to respond to Lambert’s quiet inquiry, “What are you reading?”

It didn’t seem quite real, a perfect little moment, Lambert leaning down, Jaskier face turned up, eyes shining, fire warm but not hot, and the kiss felt inevitable, close mouthed but still intimate, soft and sweet in a way he wasn’t at all used to, but more than happy to feel. 

Lambert opened his eyes, a sliver of space between them, mouth tingling, nerves shivering. Jaskier was smiling, lower lip caught in his teeth. He wasn’t expecting to get yanked all the way down, or the sharp little nipping kisses, or for Jaskier to flutter his eyelashes like a swooning girl before the bard stood and dragged him off to his bedroom.

Not that he had a problem with any of that.

*--*

The collar of his shirt was rubbing against the raw skin on his neck, Lambert having been thoroughly mauled last night, and he delighted in every little spark of discomfort. They hadn’t slept together, but Jaskier had made sure to leave plenty of reminders of what they  _ had _ done, even if half of them had healed up already. 

Lambert had walked back to his own room and furiously jerked off in a way he hadn’t since he’d been young and every breeze set his cock to stiffening. He was glad they hadn’t gone further than biting kisses and firm petting over clothes, though usually he would not be. He’d left Jaskier’s room with a promise of more, later, and it simmered under his skin.

He had plans, himself, that bottle of brandy gathering dust in his room, plenty of stories to offer up, and he was looking forward to it so much. His mood was more than just good, he was  _ happy, _ Jaskier’s lingering scent bringing a rare smile to his face, and he honestly wouldn’t have thought anything could wrestle it off, but he should have known better, by now, to underestimate his brother.

Breakfast wasn’t a crowded affair, everyone generally choosing to grab some food and eat either in their own rooms or even sometimes outside, when the air wasn’t so cold, but when Lambert walked into the kitchen he found not only Jaskier, but Geralt and Eskel as well, little Ciri hiding behind the latter, eyes wide, hands clutching at Eskel’s shirt. 

Geralt and Jaskier were sitting, spitting at each other like wet cats, words flying fast through the air, Eskel trying to soothe both without offending one and failing miserably, if one judged by the expression on his face. 

“Twenty fucking years, and what do I get for it?” Jaskier was all but hissing, tears bright in his eyes, “I get you blaming me for every single shitty thing that ever happened to you, despite all the work I’ve done to put coin in your hand and food in your belly. How many times, Geralt, did I stitch you up, pay for your room? I did it because I thought we were  _ friends, _ I did it because I wanted things to be easier for you, I wanted people to look at you and see what I saw, a  _ hero, _ and you have the gall to sit there and tell me that the most I ever was to you was a pestering fly?”

Geralt looked almost guilty for a moment, but it didn’t stop him from opening his fat mouth. “Worse! You can swat a fly. You can get rid of a pest. But there's no being rid of  _ you. _ It took you  _ twenty fucking years _ to finally realize that I didn't want or need you to be my  _ friend. _ No one with any sense would want you around for any time at all, let alone  _ decades! _ I didn't ask you to do anything for me, didn't ask for you in my space, always loud, never  _ fucking _ quiet." 

Jaskier's lips thinned. "You're a  _ bastard, _ you know that? You act like you need no one and want nothing but what has that ever done but bring you misery?"

_ "You _ bring me misery. Witchers don't need friends, and they don't need jumped up little noble  _ cowards _ pretending at being bards after running away from home and their responsibilities!" 

Geralt stood, suddenly, chair scraping loudly against the floor and Jaskier  _ flinched, _ like he was expecting to be hit, and Lambert blinked away the dazed thought that Geralt  _ had _ lied; he knew enough about Jaskier to truly hurt him, let the much more familiar feeling of rage bubble up, and tackled his brother hard enough to send the both of them sprawling. 

Ciri was shrieking at them, the glassware shivering on the shelves, and Lambert heard Jaskier snarl and stomp out of the room, but he was busy with pounding Geralt’s face flat. Not that Geralt was just letting him this time, teeth bared and fists flying, the two of them rolling around on the floor like brawlers and not trained warriors.

The fight was brought to an abrupt end by Eskel grabbing them by the backs of their necks and just pulling them apart, both of them dangling in his grip like scruffed puppies, Ciri’s confused weeping in the background stabbing at Lambert. 

Their brother shook them, face twisted up in a snarl, and it was such a shock to see Eskel of all people so angry that it took all the wind out of their sails, both going limp, staring at the floor. 

"You two morons are gonna sort this shit out," Eskel informed them darkly. "Or I am gonna take it outta your hides. Can't believe you fucking idiots were fighting in the kitchen, in front of Ciri, like fucking children." 

He dropped them, turning and guiding Ciri out of the room, a glare tossed over his shoulder for good measure. Geralt and Lambert looked at each other, faces and knuckles bloodied, chests heaving. Lambert wiped at his mouth, upper lip stinging and split, and marched off to find Jaskier and apologize. 

Geralt followed slowly.

*--* 

Lambert wasn't allowed in the room while the two were speaking, was banished out of ear shot, squirming with the urge to eavesdrop. He strained his ears, and could just about hear Eskel speaking to Ciri in the low voice he used on spooked animals. He flinched and focused on his breathing, instead, still feeling a bit guilty for scaring her earlier. 

Vesemir was no doubt planning an exhaustive list of chores for both he and Geralt; this kind of fighting not allowed in the one place they shouldn't have to worry about being seriously hurt. His ribs creaked in protest at every deep breath, and there was no way Geralt was better off than he, and Lambert supposed a week or so of grueling labor would be getting off lightly. He’d be lying if he said he wasn't worried about what Jaskier would think of this whole mess. 

Whatever wildness lurking in the corner of the bard's smiles wasn't a match for two Witchers determined to tear strips out of each other. A bit of ferocity in the bedroom didn't mean he'd approve of it outside, or want to deal with a partner with a temper or a mean wit. Lambert was too old to be fretting over this kind of thing, too used to being on his own, but still he wondered, in a mild panic, if he'd killed any chance of this new thing before it could grow. 

He actually flinched when Jaskier blew into the room, Geralt shuffling along behind him, bloodied up and looking like a whipped dog, shoulders slumped. Lambert tried to look like he wasn’t dying to know what was said that had his brother visibly emoting something besides vague displeasure. 

A crook of fingers had him following in an instant, his stomach settling somewhere around his feet, and he stared at the floor as they walked to… his room? He let himself be shoved onto the bed, door swinging shut in an ominous sort of fashion, hearing finality in every sound, or lack thereof. 

He kept his eyes on his hands, fingers twisted around themselves, as Jaskier sat next to him, heaving an exhausted sigh. Lambert tried not to read into how close they were, the press of a thigh against his own, tried to keep his heart steady. 

"I can't say I approve of you fighting," Jaskier rested his head on Lambert’s shoulder, sounding very tired. "But I appreciate the sentiment behind the actions, no matter how stupid or thoughtless said actions were. People rarely fight  _ for _ me, you see. Of course, I don't need them to, as I am more than capable of fighting my own battles, but still. Thank you, and please don't do it again." 

"I won't." Lambert turned his face so he could kiss the top of Jaskier's head, breathing in. "Does this mean I'm forgiven? Or do I gotta earn it?"

"In what way?" A surprisingly strong hand gripped his thigh, meaning that Jaskier already knew what he was hinting at. 

"How about on my knees?" 

*--*

Lambert was enjoying the show just as much as everyone else in the room, though much, much more vocal in his appreciation, managing to be heard even above the claps and cheers of the rest of Jaskier's audience. A feat, to be sure, considering the general drunkenness of the crowd, happy to sing along and stamp their feet in time to his playing. 

On top of him being very fucking  _ loud, _ Lambert is also going around and informing everyone who gazes too long at Jaskier that  _ he's _ the lucky bastard who's taking the bard to bed after his performance. He's even taken to kissing him much too firmly for public in between sets, hands  _ very _ friendly, and Jaskier is letting him, honestly enjoying Lambert’s smug grinning at the sheer amount of scowls he's getting. 

He probably shouldn't indulge his lover's possessive streak, but Lambert being in such a good mood was wonderful to see, and he'd allowed himself to be dressed up with little complaining, so he looked roguishly charming and awfully handsome. Impossible to resist. So Jaskier simply smiled and watched him strut around, smirking sharply and slipping him the occasional pinch. 

Jaskier finished to almost thundering applause, bowing, out of breath, shivering in excitement for the things Lambert had been whispering into his ears all night, happier than he'd been in years. His Witcher all but dragged him from the room, grinning and pausing to grope and kiss him against the nearest wall. 

"What do you want, gorgeous?" Lambert asked in between biting kisses along his jaw.

And Jaskier, a little euphoric still from a marvelous evening of playing, and feeling a bit overwhelmed with emotions replied, "You."   
  


**Author's Note:**

> BONUS SCENE:
> 
> Deep in the heart of the once grand Keep sat Vesemir, nursing a large glass of something smoky and dark, shaking his head and muttering, "Where did I go wrong?"


End file.
